Fire and Ice
by toSempiternity
Summary: As I am writing this, the subjects of these short vignettes are currently glaring daggers at me, having read what I was scribbling down, so I guess I better go and rip this thing up before "Fire" and "Ice" can both take turns killing me.


**Fire**

Her calculating eyes stare into the fading night sky. The stars she gazes at are never moving, never changing from her vantage point.

The stars are balls of _fire_.

_Fire_.

I watch, somewhat transfixed as her fingers skim across the springy grass. They shoot up, the fingertips glazed with droplets of dew. She absentmindedly shakes them from her hand and continues looking at the stars.

She's just like _fire_ in its purest, most awesome form.

_Fire_ is always changing, always moving. It can burn to become a roaring blaze that mows everything down in its path, or it can splutter weakly in the bitter air, the last embers dying in the presence of a blast of a winter storm.

_Fire_ is an entire story of the human race, the sum of our existence. Prometheus knew enough of that philosophy to take pity on our ancestors by bringing the spark of fire to the humans.

_Fire_ is beautiful. The dancing streams of red and orange are flickering in the air, heating a pair of frozen hands that are bitten with the frostbite of hopelessness. It is a constant reminder of everything that you love.

_Fire_ is dangerous. It burns through every single thing, not even sparing a single microbe. It charges recklessly through the landscape, heedless of everything in its path. It is the fuse of everything explosive—mostly.

_Fire_ is everything.

_She_ is forever shifting, forever running. She is like a rabid tiger, pouncing on some hapless Sambar deer. She is like a rabbit, not daring to cause the slightest strife between two sides.

_She_ is an epic of my life. She can work wonders to the soul. Without _her_, I wouldn't be anything but a dried out husk of myself.

_She_ is stunning. She could, quite possibly charm her way through a whole band of hellhounds if she put her mind to it. Don't you ever _dare_ tell her I said that.

_She_ is formidable. She is an expert battle tactician, and excellent at hacking through hoards of monsters, too.

_She_ is everything.

Annabeth Chase is _Fire_.

* * *

><p><strong>Ice<strong>

She slinks through the night like a wolf that's stalking prey. The fluffy snow gives way underneath her combat boots without a whisper.

Snow is a softer appearance of _ice_.

_Ice_.

Her gait slows down, until she is just standing there, the frosty wind whipping through her clothes. Even her jacket has a theme of winter to it.

Her pale fingers reach out to stroke a thin layer of frost on the bark of a tree.

She's just like _ice_ in its most reclusive, coldest variety.

_Ice_ is freezing to the point where your fingers fall off, and it provides surreal relief. A man can be treading through a remote landscape in the North on a sunny day, and he can be dead within the next by encountering a freak snowstorm.

_Ice_ is unyielding. Thousands of people skate on ice every year, and it stays resilient, refusing to break up into pieces.

_Ice_ is sharp. It cuts straight into you, and if you're very lucky, it draws blood without a second thought. It doesn't even say "sorry" for the inconvenience.

_Ice_ is a contradiction to _ice_. It is freezing and scorching. It doesn't let you into its secrets, yet it tells you everything about itself. It hides true intentions, whether it be to freeze you to death or let you ice skate on it.

_Ice_ is an enigma.

_She_ is cold and awkwardly comforting. She shows absolutely no emotion while people are in a state of mortal peril—like when Annabethdumps a bucketful of sand on me. She is caring, like when she took the statue of Peacock Freak that was originally meant for Annabeth and me.

_She_ is obstinate to the point of annoyance. When she sets her mind to something, nothing short of dying would stop her, unless there's a really good cheeseburger place around town.

_She_ is prickly. Sometimes, words speak louder than actions in _her_ presence. Like the time when she insulted me by rattling off a very long list of nicknames for me (it took her forty minutes to recite them all), all the way from "Anemone Head" to "Zooplankton Brine". (I didn't really get the last one.)

_She_ is the exact opposite of _herself_. She is indifferent and considerate. (To a certain extent, anyway.) She refuses to tell you anything, and then ends up telling you everything. She hates love, yet she's wistful of her past relationship.

_She_ is an enigma.

Thalia Grace is _Ice_.

* * *

><p>This pretty much makes me wonder exactly how <em>Annabeth<em> and _Thalia_ met with each other and became best friends. Aren't they polar opposites? I mean, seriously: **Fire** does _not_ equal **Ice**.

As I am writing this, the subjects of these short vignettes are currently glaring daggers at me, having read what I was scribbling down, so I guess I better go and rip this thing up before "Fire" and "Ice" can both take turns killing me.

—**Percy Jackson**


End file.
